You open the door and a fly immediately lands on your left cheek. You don't even bother swatting, it's been 9 months now and you could care less. You inhale one last gulp of clean air and step into the 105 degree box. You set your baby wipes and magazine on the tiny shelf and look down at the muddy sandal prints framing either side of the seat. Squatters. You do your best to sanitize the area, clear the cliffhangers, and settle in for your morning glory. Beads of sweat roll down your face as you thumb through the tattered and abused pages of the platoon Maxim. 'No, no, maybe, no, hellllooooo beautiful' you mumble as you start to make your move. You are barely 20 seconds into 'reading' when somewhere off in the distance you hear a muffled boom. Perking up, you conduct a short halt, listening carefully, and then it happens. The round impacts just outside the motor pool, not 80 meters from your pleasure palace. Your first instinct is make a dash for the bunker, but you don't. This is your chance. The coveted Combat Jack, it's what separates the men from the boys, and by God, you are getting yours today. As the shells rain down it's hard to tell what's beating faster, your heart or your fist. Even the flies take cover as you race towards the finish, you've never felt so alive. As quickly as it began, the barrage comes to an end as both you and the insurgents are mission complete. Proudly, you step out of into the bright sun, puffing your chest as you strut back to the B-Hut, Maxim tucked neatly under your arm. Yes, you are now a card carrying member of Combat Jack's Gentleman's Club. We meet on Tuesdays for punch and pie.